


Every Burden, Layette Down

by Trudemaethien



Series: Bacara Knits - Soft Wars [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst, Babies, Depression, F/M, Family Feels, Fiber Arts, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Is in the Albarrio Sector, Knitted Lace, Knitting, Knitting Gear, M/M, Married Couple, Meditation, Multi, Parenthood, Planet Concord Dawn (Star Wars), Planet Mygeeto (Star Wars), Post-OVD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, References to Depression, Shockiness, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars, The Force, Vomiting, Yarn Porn, Yarn appreciation, bad sleep habits, beach party, fatigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29948061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trudemaethien/pseuds/Trudemaethien
Summary: After the end of the war, Clone Commander Bacara needs time to heal. So he picks up his knitting needles again, for a different sort of project.
Relationships: CC-1138 | Bacara/CT-7567 | Rex, CC-1138 | Bacara/Kit Fisto/CT-7567 | Rex, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Bacara Knits - Soft Wars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196264
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55
Collections: Open Source Soft Wars





	Every Burden, Layette Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Expansionist Tendencies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831998) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 
  * Inspired by [Holding on and Letting Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664595) by [Project0506](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506). 
  * Inspired by [Know Your Worth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965907) by [sudsyjellyfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudsyjellyfish/pseuds/sudsyjellyfish). 



> Please, please read the tags and take note of the themes. This character is dealing with PTSD, depression, and grief, particularly about war and parenthood. There is a brief, non-graphic reference to loss of lives and TW: suicides. Please be kind to your own mental health and read at your own discretion.

Being on Concord Dawn is… mind-bogglingly different than training on Kamino or fighting on the war front. 

Rex is readily available. (Except when he isn’t, but they’ve worked through that misunderstanding). 

It doesn’t feel real yet that he can just get up and go- anywhere he wants.

He can just access anyone- in person even, if he wishes. 

If he wants to speak to someone, they aren’t unavailable. He isn’t limited to priority-chat. He doesn’t have to give up every half-formed phrase that isn’t military necessity to the starless void of empty space. 

It’s been forever since he could just _talk_ , and now he has silenced himself for so long that he feels incapable of allowing words to escape his lips. 

It’s often easier to use the intermediary step of comms, non-priority, which is much less regulated than what he had before, but still more insulated than speaking directly to people. Everyone knows The Marine is a reticent bastard anyway, of course. His reputation is a curse and a blessing. 

He can usually compel himself to speak to his Novas: Daan and Keller and Kestor and Dreich and all the rest of his Marines. He cannot give them very many words, but he can say enough to communicate his care for them. 

He maintains conversations with Neyo and Jet. He already had reliable, in-person relationships with these two. So this is just a logical continuation, and is well-worth the effort. He has to remind himself of that sometimes. It’s not because he doesn’t _want_ to talk, just sometimes he gets stuck. 

It’s easiest to speak with Rex. Now that they are face to face, without the threat of death or separation hanging over them anymore, Bacara’s eyes and heart are full and the words overflow from his lips. It feels both eminently natural and dazzlingly surreal: frightening, but in a good way. 

But this freedom that feels so exhilarating can change on the spin of a credit, into a bottomless freefall that makes his thoughts stumble and his tongue freeze. Sometimes he tries to open his mouth and speak, and cannot. He’d _like_ to talk to Colt and Gree and Fox, Neyo’s Edee, Rancor, Guard, Torrent, Ghost, Valor…and more. His voice won’t always lock up, he hopes, someday. There are so many brothers. Vod’e. 

Very few Tate. 

He speaks with Steady, but Steady is tat’ka. He cannot, and should not, be Bacara’s peer. And when they use JMP dialect with each other, Davin’s spectre is always hovering just out of sight. Maybe that will fade with time. Maybe it won’t. 

Bacara feels like he doesn’t belong here yet, can’t possibly contort enough to fit this new reality. But he knows what to do when there’s nothing else to be done, and he needs to keep the thoughts quiet. Giving himself a purpose and projects to plan relieves a lot of the mental clamor/feedback/overload. 

He requisitions a time slot on a mill-printer, slags some of his magpie scrap, codes in all the specs he still has perfectly memorized, and fabs up his four-set of needles ( _darts-_ but, no here they needn’t double as darts. He’s safe. Safety sits on him like an ill-fitting disguise). 

He is going to knit. He hasn’t made a single sock in months; planning their exit mission on top of fighting the war made everything too hectic there at the end. (Disgraceful. He smirks at the imaginary priority-chat antics).

He has missed immersing himself in the positive mental space he built to help himself cope through the years of the war. Harmful thoughts aren’t allowed to be stitched into the knit, after all. The activity is meditative and soothing, and productive as a bonus. 

He just needs to source some wool, and figure out what to knit. Their neighbor Wolffe, of Wolfpack, knits too. He has a collection of needles of various sizes, yarns of many colors and weights. Bacara had forgotten that people normally requisition, (or now it’s ‘order’ and ‘purchase’), the specific things they want instead of making ends meet with whatever they can scrounge. Or had he ever known? Was that ever normal for him? It’s something assumed as standard. But he cannot remember a single moment of his life that resembles this elusive “normal.”

He braves the open holonet to search “knit”, and is taken aback by the overwhelming deluge of information. He has to refine his searches a lot to find anything relevant, (“Knitting pattern Albarrion Basic unpaid tutorial” gets him closer to what he had been hoping for), and the amount of data is still overwhelming. Not just the variety of materials, but also the designs and techniques. The patterns. 

There is knitted _lace._

It’s so _delicate_ , (and practically useless) and _beautiful_. Complex. Intellectually and visually enticing. 

He reads, and reads some more. Watches tutorials. Puzzles through charts. 

He finds pictures and patterns of soft clothing for the tiniest babies and feels his throat close up. _Teil_ his brain whispers, maybe yours won’t die anymore. Maybe you won’t have to watch them be decommissioned or bleed out or suicide. Maybe you won’t have to _help send them_ -

He’s not ready. Can’t handle- doesn’t deserve. He feels abruptly sick. He makes himself first close the page and clear the history, then he goes to the fresher and throws up, cleans up his mess, and puts himself to bed.

He wakes from dreams he cannot articulate, with tear tracks running down his face. He’s very glad no one else is here watching him break. He lets himself cry just a little- too much grief can make them shocky, they’d found; so the medics strongly advise them to buddy up to mourn. It feels too much like dangerous exposure to consider, even if it were with Rex or Neyo, his two closest connections. Keller would glare at him for disregarding medical advice, but he’s not here right now and Bacara isn’t scared of his medic. 

He washes the evidence from his face, and prowls to the kitchen. Rex is not home yet; so he stands to eat his portion of food, watching through the sweeping bank of windows as dusk deepens over the ocean. After, he still feels heavily fatigued despite sleeping all afternoon. Rex is still not home yet, it must be a late night of work. 

There is still so much to do, yet the Vod’alor has benched the forward companies, commanders and all, to heal before he’ll allow them any duties, even though they could be doing so much to help run this place. Although, it makes sense not to let the forward companies to shape their future, if they want it to go well. Bacara shakes away the morose thoughts and settles down to wait on the deck, using the cool air and the light of the moons to help keep him alert. He doesn’t have any yarn to occupy his hands yet. He has powered through exhaustion for days on end before, and fundamentally he should be no less capable of a soldier, just because they aren’t at war. He will see Rex come home. 

He wakes up when foreign warmth seeps into his chilled skin. Rex- it’s just Rex- is gathering him up to carry inside. He fell asleep. He feels like maybe he ought to protest, but Rex likes taking care of him and he can let him have this one. He supposes it’s true then, that he’s weaker now than he was at war. His pride in himself is only a small loss, in the scale of things lost. He lets it go. 

Rex is still curled into him when he wakes up, and he releases a long, content sigh. Rex’s time is a sought-after commodity even after he apologized for being caught up in work and initially neglecting their relationship. And really, Bacara doesn’t need him, only wants, but the full body contact is a relief. “Wolffe tattled on you, so I’m taking today off,” Rex mumbles into his neck, sleepy and amused. “Why were you sleeping in the gravel?”

Bacara feigns sleep to avoid answering. Rex teases his hands down Bacara’s back to prove that he’s actually awake, but also drops the subject in favor of more pleasant activities. 

Later that morning, he picks up a pertinent bit of intel from Rex’s chatter. “Your boy is going to have babies?” he asks, startled. Bacara feels like maybe he should have known this already. 

“Yeah,” says Rex, all his smile lines crinkling up in the most endearingly fond look. “Anakin and Padmé just found out it’s going to be twins. She’s staying on Alderaan, it’s the best place to grow nat-borns before they’re, well, born. Anakin is bouncing back and forth between there and Home like a spastic jumpscare.”

“True to form,” Bacara mutters, and then says, “so, you’re going to be a, what’s it called, parent of a parent? How do you say it?” He’s been casually trying to pick up standard mando’a so Rex knows he isn’t asking for a Basic word. His accent will always make him stand out, but he needs to have at least a vague understanding of what people are saying. He refuses to actually study it, though. 

“Ba’buir,” answers Rex, still with that extravagantly fond smile. (Babuir, Bacara adds to his mental vocabulary list.)

“Congratulations on your expanding family,” Bacara says, because he does know how to be nice. 

Rex’s attention zeroes in on him, “Oh, no you don’t. _Our_ family. Those are your bu’ade too.” (Buad...ah? Probably the counterpoint to babuir. Bacara cannot _beten_ , at all. He has tried. He has also given up trying. It throws his pronunciation off even more than the accent).

“No, uh-uh, no, I do not claim that, that, that, _hooligan_! He is _your_ problem. Do _not_ put that on me,” Bacara backpeddles furiously and then sucks in his breath, hoping he hasn’t actually offended Rex, but also he very much wants nothing to do with the Jedi poster-boy. 

Rex’s eyes get big and sad and his lip, swear to the bottom of the oceans of Kamino, _trembles_. These are the tooka eyes; he’s in trouble. There’s no defense. 

“...can I please skip a generation?” Bacara feebly tries to joke, “Because I do not have anything against your _buada_ babies, or even that sweet Nabooian diplomat that will be ...decanting? Just against _flailing_ trash- _fire_ Jedi _terror_.”

Rex just keeps gazing, sadly yet hopefully, at him. It’s about more than that, his expression says. He waits for Bacara to confess the true problem. 

Bacara recognizes his own tactics. They are highly effective. He drops his eyes to the table, “I’m not. Shouldn’t be. Authorized for littles. Yet. It’s. Too soon. I- just. Rex, I can’t.” He chances a glance at Rex’s face. It’s more sad but understanding now. “I want to. I have wished, and I still, y’know,” he swallows, unable to admit how much he wants a child, then hurries on, “in the future, probably. Maybe. But not. Right now? I am not- not okay. I’ll give as much as I can handle when I can. Probably not a lot, for these little ones.” He lets the words settle, and then adds softly, “M’sorry, Rex.”

Rex’s hand slides over his shoulder and comes to rest against the back of his neck. He raises his face enough that Rex can pull him into keldabe if he wants. He does. “It’s alright, ‘Cara,” Rex murmurs soothingly. “In your own time.” 

“Just don’t make me deal with your ridiculous boy-child, please,” Bacara says, and this time the joke works to make Rex chuckle. 

That afternoon Bacara takes his time choosing patterns. He reads user reviews and orders large amounts of baby soft lace-weight yarn in leaf green and stark white. He’s planning to keep it simple, solid colors, until a variegated yarn catches his eye: shades of blue from sky to Torrent and hints of teal, with gold and black speckled throughout. He hesitates for the longest time, returning to look at it again and again until he gives in. It wants to be chosen and it is perfectly compatible, baby soft, lace-weight. He feels ridiculous. He removes it from the order. 

Rex glances over his shoulder that while he’s yet again admiring the colorful yarn, and he says, “ _whoa_ , what is _that_ ,” in such a reverent tone that Bacara adds it back and sends the order before he can second-guess himself. 

While waiting for the yarn to arrive, he has a few more preparations to make. Three palm widths of needle was enough space to work a sock, but he needs to be able to make things that are bigger than socks, like blankets. He putters with smooth flexible cables and delicately threaded screws to attach them to the slim needle-points. The work is soothing as only work can be, shutting out the ambient noise of the atmosphere.

A few days later, Rex hauls a painted metal tool chest home, for him to store all his fabbed knitting gear. Bacara doesn’t feel the need to travel away from their home almost ever; Rex does, but he always comes back. They also have visitors often enough that Bacara doesn’t feel like an anti-social hermit. It’s the combination of strange places and crowds that make him antsy. A strange place might be alright if he could guarantee no one would surprise him there, but he can’t. Their house and land could fit quite a crowd, but it never has, and he suspects it’s another protocol to protect forward companies. (Danger: Do Not Crowd)

It’s a satisfactory arrangement, as long as Bacara has something to do to keep himself busy, and now he does. He doesn’t advertise his knitting. All his men knew he knitted downrange, but if he isn’t handing out socks, they might not notice nor care whether he’s knitting now. This will be a surprise, he’s decided. Anonymous. Maybe someday he might talk about it. Until then, it’s a solitary comfort. He can put his projects in the chest, clasp the lid shut, and slide it out of sight (especially important safeguard when the nosier Torrents come around).

The blankets are the first and easiest to begin with. The design is a square, begun at the center and increased at the corners, so the line of increases looks like an X from corner to corner. The middle is smooth stockinette, and the edges are a wide swathe of lacy repeat. He makes one with a green center and one with white, and edges them both with the riotously colorful yarn. The colors of the variegated yarn pool differently on each of the blankets: patches of dark blue and light blue pool around the edges on the green blanket, but the shades are more swirled together without solid spots around the white one. Then he makes another set of blankets with alternating rounds of green-and-blue and white-and-blue. The slim striping effect blends together, making different shades. 

Az’ka hangs out a lot, and so does Steady. He doesn’t knit in front of them, at first. He thinks Rex may have warned them both at some point because they never pry about what he puts away into the chest whenever they come into the room. Eventually, he relaxes a bit. He won’t tell them what he’s making, but he doesn’t always put it away. He briefs them each, separately, to please not talk about his business to others. 

He makes booties, mitts, and bonnets, following the same theme. He considers the folded items at this point, two months into the project, and orders glossy ribbons: black, light and dark blue, gold, and dark vivid green. Some are small, to thread through the clothes as fastenings. Some are wide, and these he will use to bundle the finished sets -or, layettes, as they’re called for babies. 

Clothes are a little trickier, but no more so than his gloves had been, and this time he is not writing his own pattern. 

A blessing gown for each, a lacy cardigan, and a solid sweater and leggings with feet. Each garment takes a couple weeks. 

Padmé is nearly to her decanting day. It isn’t as easy to schedule nat-borns as it is for clones, but she is getting the best care and the doctors say it will be very soon. 

Bacara eyes his heap of knitted bounty and rubs his restless fingers together. He decides to make a lovey doll, the kind that’s a square with a soft head on one corner. He decides this has to be cutting it fine enough. He still needs to sneak his gifts to Coruscant. He frets, and Rex finally relents to break the tension. 

“Me’bana, Bacara,” he demands. (This one Bacara learned very early on. It’s a check-in, status report.) Yes, it’s time to lay it all out. 

Bacara gestures for him to follow, and brings out the bag he’s been using to stash finished pieces from their closet. He takes them out and shows them to Rex, one by one. Rex has seen him working with these colors, but it’s different to see a heap of knitted something on needles than it is to see finished products displayed. Bacara has knitted 24 complete items, all told, and they cover the entire surface of their bed, which is big enough for three. “This is what I’ve been making. It’s for the babies. The twins, your _buada_ , on Alderaan. You should be the one to give these to them. It wouldn’t be the same coming from me.”

“Bacara,” Rex protests. 

“Please? It’s- I still- can’t. They aren’t my people, not really, Rex. I just wanted to make- give them something. The knitting helps, having something to focus on, and I’ve only put soft and sweet feelings in them, shouldn’t disturb the babies at all. They really don’t need to know it’s from me, please?”

“... you put… emotions in them?” Rex’s eyebrows are all the way up. It’s not like Rex knows such a thing is impossible, but that he wouldn’t have expected ‘force nonsense’ from Bacara. 

“Well,” he clears his throat, “it’s likely the kids will be force sensitive, yeah? So it’s probably ridiculous, but uh, it’s just something I used to do when I learned to knit back on -back then. Socks with ...blessings, maybe. I can’t feel the force, so I’ll never know if it actually worked, if my intent made any difference to the sock itself or the men who wore them, but it at least helped keep my mind off ...the really bad things. Maybe you can ask a jedi how these feel, actually, just in case, before you give them…” As he explains, he gathers each piece and folds them carefully until he has two neat stacks, one predominantly green and the other white, both with hints of that vibrant multi-hued blue throughout. He wraps the wide sky blue ribbon around the green bundle and busies himself getting the bow to lay flat and even. 

Rex isn’t saying anything, so he chances a glance; Rex is gazing at him with shiny hearts in his eyes and was apparently waiting for him to look up to speak. “Bacara, that’s the most precious thing I’ve ever heard! You tender-hearted idiot, why in the galaxy wouldn’t you be willing to take credit for this gift? Afraid of seeming soft?” 

“Of course not!” Bacara snaps, intensely uncomfortable. He just doesn’t want people to look at this and think about him. He wraps a wide gold ribbon around the white stack, and then holds a black ribbon against it to compare instead. The black and white contrast sharply, but it’s not really baby aesthetic. It reminds him of shinies’ armor and bodysuits. He goes back to the gold, thinks of Cody, wrinkles his nose, and then picks up a dark (Torrent) blue ribbon with finality and begins tying the white bundle together with it. 

“Then what is it, really?” Rex asks softly. 

He takes a steadying breath and tries to figure out the words. They come slowly, “This gift ought to be uncomplicated for them. I don’t want to make this into a big deal, a sign of my progress or something, with my baggage tied to it. Knitting does help me heal and deal with emotions and I am getting there, closer to being better but they don’t need the burden of that knowledge attached to this gift. I think I’ll- I can tell them, eventually, when it’s not so heavy anymore. For now, though, a time like this, the birth of new children, should be full of peace and joy only.”

Rex is listening. He doesn’t see it Bacara’s way; he wants Bacara to immerse himself in the family Rex has found and built. Rex is generous to a fault. Bacara does realize his integration into the family is fairly inevitable because he has freely and knowingly committed himself to a lifetime with Rex. But Bacara will be the one to determine his own pace. Rex can rush and rage like the torrent he is, but Bacara is the bulwark, the dug-in front line; erosion takes time.

Bacara forces himself to lean back against the doorframe and shrug nonchalantly. Time for some dirty tactics, “If you don’t want to give them these, I could always get, hm, ...Fox to do it instead,” he offers innocently and then pretends he’s going to snatch up the bundles. Fox has emerged as Rex’s arch-rival when it comes to the unborn twins, because the senator favors Fox almost as much as Anakin favors Rex. Fox has been smugly, flauntingly, frequenting Alderaan. Rex throws himself bodily over them, and Bacara starts laughing, “I’m going to make dinner,” he closes the issue, “do you want tubers or noodles with the stir-fry?”

“I’m not sharing any baby pictures with you!” shouts Rex from behind him, and Bacara just laughs harder. 

Part 2 - Newborns

“What are _those_?” Anakin asks, intrigued. Padmé drifts over, interested in spite of herself. She knows if she gets too close to Rex with a baby in her arms, the child will be summarily co-opted. 

“I got these for the twins,” (which is technically not untrue), Rex says, and lifts off the lids of the gift boxes. He sets them aside, angling himself closer to the new mother in preparation for his baby acquisition op. Anakin brushes the delicate layers of tissue paper aside and steps back involuntarily. “Whoa!” he says. “Faaaancy! Where’d you get something like this? Look, hon, our kids are gonna be better dressed than you, and that’s saying something!”

Rex quashes the delighted preening that he wants to indulge in on Bacara’s behalf, and shrugs like he has no clue about any of this. Padmé peeks into the box and her eyes flare wide in delighted surprise and then narrow with suspicion. “These are _gorgeous_! Who’s the clothier?” Padmé asks, faux-casually. She does suspect something! Rex had just known he would need to bluff. He tries to let his face slide naturally into a non-suspicious neutral and works very hard to not let his smile-lines crinkle or any of his nervous giggles surface. 

Anakin catches on, digging for info, “We’ll need to know so we can get more when they grow out of these.”

Rex shakes his head. “Custom. Exclusive, proprietary, very limited. I can get more but I’m not giving up my contact to you,” he keeps his breathing even. Delay, deflect, don’t lie. He was not coded for subterfuge!

“Why not,” Padmé queries sharply. “How much did they cost?”

“Did you steal them, or steal something to pay for them?” Anakin asks, eyes aglow with mischief. His wife gently smacks his arm. 

“Do you like them?” Rex redirects desperately instead, and bulls forward into the changed topic with haste, “The one bundled with light blue ribbon is for Luke, and the one with dark blue is for Leia.” It works. Rex swoops in and extracts Luke from his mother, who is distracted with opening and cooing over the gifts.

“Green for Luke, and white for Leia? Oh, these are exquisite! Look, Anakin! They both get this swirled blue edge, but they’re just different enough- not just the color, but the lace patterns, oh they’re so _pretty_!”

Anakin gingerly touches a bonnet, and marvels, “oh wow, it’s almost as soft as the babies’ hair.”

“Just look how intricate this lace _is_ ... oh. This- this is handmade, isn’t it, Rex? This is actual one-of-a-kind fine craftsmanship, not designer fashion. Someone who _knows us_ , and cares about us a lot.” 

Rex tilts his head inquisitively, keeping his mouth firmly shut. The only way he can lie is to _not_ lie. 

She continues, “I can tell because they left flaws in the weave. Yes, here’s one and here’s another, they’re on every piece, aren’t they? It’s a superstition on Naboo, Ani. If it’s perfectly woven, then the baby’s soul might get caught in it like a net.”  
[AN: Padmé uses the incorrect terms weave and woven because I headcanon that’s how textiles are made on Naboo. She doesn’t know that it’s called knit. If Bacara heard her use the wrong terms, it’d make his eye twitch.]

“Really?” Anakin drawls, and runs his fingers over the lace cuff of one of Luke’s green sweaters. “Who did it, Rex, you? Been hiding this kind of artsy handicraft from me, all this time?”

“No, sir,” says Rex reflexively, even though he doesn’t have to call Anakin that anymore. Anakin grins at him. “I have no idea how to do anything like this,” he insists (true), and Anakin scoffs good naturedly. 

Padmé eyes are brimming with tears but she is smiling (not her official smile but the wide crooked toothy one), as she throws her arms around Rex’s neck, being careful of the baby he’s cuddling. “Tell whoever it is, _thank you_ ,” she says and muffles a sniffly sob into his shoulder. Rex pats her back gently, slightly awkward. Anakin smirks at him for a minute, and then shows mercy. 

“Let’s get them dressed in the new clothes!” he suggests, and it immediately detaches Padmé and brightens her demeanor. 

“Yes, let’s!” she says and claps her hands giddily. They’re still so young, Rex thinks, feeling much older than he is and fond with it.   
  


Part 3 - The Reveal

Almost a year later…

Bacara snakes his arms around Rex from behind, and softly murmurs in his ear, “Do you still have that classified file I gave you to hold onto for me during the war?”

It isn’t anything like what Rex had expected him to say just then; they’re getting ready for a gathering on their stretch of beach tomorrow. He takes a moment to place the request, “That 18 page gibberish code doc that you kept needing me to send you? Yeah, I saved it with my personals instead of on the GAR server just like you told me to; should be easy to pull up still. Why?”

“I need it again,” Bacara kisses under his riduur’s ear and then purposefully strides away. Rex shakes his head fondly, watching him go. 

He goes inside to access the dataserver and pulls up the doc to send. As he does every time Bacara has requested the damn thing, he opens it to puzzle over yet again, and then he starts to laugh. He recognizes some of it _now_. It’s knitters’ shorthand. He laughs about it at random moments for the rest of the day. 

That evening Bacara spends a couple hours making edits and cross references. Rex leans over his shoulder and retaliates for the kiss-and-run earlier, with a nip here and a nip there. Bacara stubbornly ignores his antics until he’s satisfied with his gibberish and then he turns and pounces on his biter. It’s a lovely evening. 

The next day, neighboring families start trickling in before noon, and then Rex and Bacara see very little of each other for hours. This day-party has been arranged mainly for the community’s littles to play in the water; there’s sunscreen, shade, and lifeguards to arrange, as well as food and seating and games. Fun is scheduled by tides and by weather, both of which are perfect. By midafternoon, everything is running as smoothly as these things tend to go, (a fairly riotous version of smooth), when Bacara next finds his way to Rex and flops down next to him. He’s carrying a tool box. Rex raises an eyebrow and Bacara smirks at him and opens the case. Nonchalantly, he opens his secret document and begins the familiar movements of casting on. It’s white, very fine thread. 

Rex finally gets to know what’s on the doc! He can’t wait- and he likes watching Bacara’s strong hands move and make, especially when it’s something delicate. 

He doesn’t even realize there’s another layer to this op until Anakin runs by, sandy from the ball game, double takes, and skids to a stop. “YOU!” He shouts, and points incredulously at Bacara, who cocks his head to show he’s listening politely but doesn’t look away from his precision work. Anakin splutters. “Padmé, Padmé! C’mere! Never guess who I just found!” he shouts toward the abandoned ball game, then whirling back to chivy her along faster. Their An’ka never stops moving. “Lookit!” he pants, pointing. Rex is snickering into the back of his hand. 

Padmé drops to her knees. A few lazily nosy brothers look their way. Anakin being dramatic is not newsworthy. If the senator (and she will always be the senator to them) is involved, it might be interesting. 

“Did you? Make us those baby things?” She asks with wide, earnest eyes. 

“DO not hug me,” Bacara warns. 

“You did!” she bounces and squeals a little, and then tries to regain her decorum. “What are you making now?” she asks, sitting back and settling in to watch.

Bacara lets his smile be his non-answer for a long moment. “Not more layettes, I hope,” he snarks, side-eyeing the young couple for the audacity to have had an accidental pregnancy. She laughs and scoots closer. Bacara doesn’t flinch. 

Rex loves his family. 

**Author's Note:**

> JMP Mando’a (Soft Wars ‘Verse)  
> Teil- parent  
> Tate- siblings, plural  
> Tatka- younger sibling  
> An’ka and Az’ka- diminutive fond versions of Anakin and Ahsoka, JMP style
> 
> Standard Mando’a  
> Ba’buir- grandparent  
> Bu’ad- grandchild  
> Beten- the mid-word apostrophe that indicates a glottal stop  
> Keldabe- referring to a keldabe kiss, touching foreheads together  
> Me’bana- what’s up, report
> 
> CC-6975 | Steady is a clone commander cadet OC belonging to CmonCmon. I love him a perfectly reasonable amount, and thanks for letting me use him occasionally. 
> 
> Thanks, Ace’buir for beta reading and the Soft Wars discord server for enabling.


End file.
